


Cruelty

by Akoya8



Series: Birthday One-Word Prompts [33]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing Lessons, F/M, Marriage of Convenience Plot, Tango Made For Two, Vertical Expression Of Horizontal Desire, Who Am I Kidding There's Going To Be Horizontal Expression Too, cliches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akoya8/pseuds/Akoya8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is getting married in six months, but she needs dancing lessons in a bad way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Bit of Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire belongs to GRRM, but I get to play in the sandbox. 
> 
> Author’s Note: I’M BACK, BITCHES! My god, how long has it been? Too long, that’s all I know. I present to you the first chapter of the 33rd installment of the one-word prompt series. At this point, I have no idea how long it will be, nor do I know how consistent my updates will be. Trifling concerns right now.

“ _In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity_.”  
       —Sun Tzu

“Sansa? Are you listening, Sansa?”

She abruptly came back to the present moment, swatches of fabric still clutched between her fingers. Their colors were a kaleidoscope before her eyes, swirling into new shapes, dotting her vision with their gleaming tendrils. Gold and green for a wedding dress? Stranger things had happened, and he did say he liked them…

“Sansa!”

“Yes. Sorry, what?”

The woman across from her heaved a heavy sigh, “Sansa, I don’t mean to bully you, but this is _your_ wedding. A little more attention would be welcome.”

Her wedding, yes, it was. It was odd how they—the women, and her fiancé, who had assumed control of the whole campaign—reminded her of that only when they found her lacking in some way.

“Right, sorry. I like them, I think.”

“Margaery thought you would. She had a devil of a time finding colors that wouldn’t clash with that hair of yours.”

Sansa raised a hand to her hair self-consciously. Though it had long since darkened into a color closer to that of her mother’s auburn locks, Olenna Tyrell had a way of making her feel like it was a bright orangey shade that would be better served guiding ships through a dark night.

“She was right. They’ll be fine. Did Lor—”

Olenna cut her off with an imperious wave of her hand, “On to the next item, then. We’ve selected an appropriate group of musicians for the ceremony and the reception. Trained in one of the Free Cities, but rather decent despite that shortcoming. They are not they problem, however, you are.”

_Isn’t that the crux of this whole ordeal_ , Sansa thought. _When is the problem not with me_?

“I’m not sure I—”

Olenna cut her off again, “Dancing. I have been led to believe that that social grace is not one you possess. Correct?”

_Bollocks_.

“I’ve tried, but without a great deal of success.”

“Hmm, as I thought. That will not do. Loras is an exceptionally fine dancer, as you know, and you will be expected not to make a fool of him at the reception.”

Sansa winced inwardly. Olenna could give lessons in properly delivered insults if she had a mind to, and retire on her earnings. “We had discussed him teaching me.”

“Oh, that will never do. He’ll be far too busy with the company to bother with teaching you. No, I have procured lessons for you with a reputable group. My secretary will provide their information on your way out. Arrange your meetings without delay. The wedding will be upon us very soon.”

A small spark of anger blossomed in her ribcage, but she managed a small smile, “Thank you, Mrs. Tyrell. I’ll do that immediately.”

How Olenna could look down her nose at someone standing up was a feat beyond Sansa’s comprehension. “See that you do, Sansa. My secretary will also arrange our next appointment. Guest lists must be gone over a final time.” She paused, and an almost imperceptible sneer twisted her lips, “Margaery tells me that you have other friends that you may wish to invite. Please make sure to bring their names, although be aware that priority will be given to family and family friends.”

_Meaning that I probably shouldn’t bother to invite any of them_. _They’ll probably thank me_. _Thank you_ , you _she-dragon_ , _for giving them the out they were waiting for_. Sansa picked up on the dismissal in the old woman’s tone, though, and hurried to end their excruciating exchange, “Of course, Mrs. Tyrell. I’ll see you then.”

She covered the distance from the desk to the doors in what felt like record time, but waited until they closed behind her to let her shoulders sag. Another “meeting” over with, and only a million more to go. The wedding was half a year away, almost an eternity, but Olenna treated it as if it were going to leap out at her from around a lurking corner. Could corners even lurk? Shaking the errant thought away, she strode over to the secretary’s desk.

“Miss Stark, the contact information you require, and Mrs. Tyrell is available in a fortnight at three. Will that be problematic?”

Again with the problems.

“No, that’s fine. The office will let me out a bit early.”

“Very good.”

It should be impossible for a mere secretary to equal Olenna’s oppressively superior attitude, or illegal, at least. “Thank you, Janis. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Rather than face the close walls of the lift, she took the stairs. She briefly flicked her eyes over the small business card Janis had handed her: Baelish Dance Company. The name sounded familiar, but she was unable to place it.

_I’ll call when I get home, get it out of the way fast_. _Hopefully it won’t take six months to learn how to waltz without killing myself_ , _or_ , _gods forbid_ , embarrassing _my fiancé and his bitch of a grandmother_.

Baelish. Where did she know that name?


	2. A Sudden Conflagration of Feelings

“ _I’ve had a tense couple of days_. _And I’ve got to tell you_ , _burning someone’s face off sounds like a great way to relax_.”  
     —Jim Butcher, _Small Favor_

The life of a paralegal, as Sansa had long ago learned, was neither glamorous, nor appreciated. On the days that she was not out fetching lattes for her bosses, she was buried in the records room, drumming up precedents and collating relevant case files. Still, Lannister & Sons was an incredibly prestigious firm, with a long history behind its name. She should feel privileged to work there, and, admittedly, there were days that she did.

Those days, however, did not include the ones in which she spilled coffee on herself, broke half of her favorite pair of pumps, or had to stay until six in the evening. Unfortunately, today was not her day, _or_ her night.

Lunch with Loras had been on her mind when she spilled the coffee.

He’d been unusually quiet, and she’d guessed that the pressures of the wedding were finally getting to him. To her surprise, Loras had shared the source of his mood: his lover, Renly Baratheon.

“The thing is, Sansa, he, more than anyone, should understand why I have to go through with this,” his frustration colored his words, and sharpened their points. Loras was not his family’s only son, but he was the one slotted to inherit his father’s portion of Tyrell Industries, a not inconsiderable share of the company. And though the Tyrells were understanding of his…inclinations, they did condone his marrying them.

His father’s failing health had heightened the necessity of a marriage to a girl with a good family name, and Sansa’s friendship with Margaery had shoved _her_ name to the top of a rather short list. She’d balked at the idea, at first, protesting that such marriages belonged in the barbaric past with the knights and the dragons, and that she was unsuitable anyway.

The Tyrells had dynastic ambitions, much like the other old Westerosi families (Starks excluded), and Sansa…

Four different doctors and multiple tests had confirmed the saddening truth of her sterility. Her childhood bout with greyscale had left her skin unblemished, and her uterus irreparably scarred. She’d come to terms long ago, but she didn’t think Olenna Tyrell would be as understanding of her situation as she was of her grandson’s.

It was Loras, shockingly enough, who had brought her around.

“It’s all right, you know. Surrogacy is an option, and I had always planned on adopting one of Margaery’s children as my own. I just need you to be you. I’d rather have you as my friend than turn you into an object of mockery by attempting to make you my wife in more than name. People know about me; I’ve never kept my preferences a secret, so they won’t really expect you to be pregnant. It’s all about appearances and names anyway.”

But what about love, her heart had cried out. What about connecting in a way that is physical _and_ emotional? What about everything her parents had that she had wanted for herself one day?

Again, Loras seemed to know what to say, “I don’t mind you having lovers of your own. I’ve no plans to give up Renly, no matter how much grandmother scowls at his family name.”

After a couple of weeks spent in deep contemplation, Sansa had agreed.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, and she did genuinely like Loras. But the moment she’d given her approval, her life was suddenly not her own. Schedules were made for meetings about planning the planning of the wedding. It was as if Olenna had taken a look at her and decided that her life needed to be in complete disarray, which was not all that surprising, actually. Loras and Margaery had been her rocks for the last month, but their lives were not expected to revolve around the wedding the way hers was; so they could successfully remain apart from the constant barrage of plans and fabric swatches.

And now, Renly’s indignation was rearing its head in the face of his lover’s impending nuptials.

“We had once talked about him marrying Margaery,” Loras had gone on,” but grandmother detests the Baratheons.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa had said, feeling that the words were inadequate, but needing to say them.

Her fiancé had waved an unconcerned hand, “He’ll come ’round, eventually. Now, grandmother told me that you’ll be getting dancing lessons. I regret not being able to teach you myself, but the next several months will be extremely busy for the company. Baelish’s studio is excellent, though. I danced with them for several years, in fact. When will you start?”

“Tonight. I’ve made an appointment for five o’ clock.”

They’d spent the rest of Sansa’s lunch hour chatting amicably, and Sansa had felt that a true friendship with Loras was in the realms of possibility, rather than the outskirts of “never going to happen.”

The name Baelish still niggled at her, though, and that’s what made her trip over a box and break the heel off one of her pumps. Maybe Loras had mentioned it once before when talking about his years of ballroom dancing?

She’d been unable to call the studio and explain her lateness, but she hoped that someone would be there so that she could at least make her apologies. An exorbitant hackney fare later, she stood crookedly in front of what appeared to be a dark and closed building.

 _Just knock on the door_. _If no one is there_ , _no harm_ , _no penalty_ , _and I can call and grovel tomorrow_.

Despite her attempts to get her courage up, her knock was timid, barely breaking the silence of the night air. She was about to hobble back to the corner when the door opened, and an older man looked out at her with an annoyed expression.

“What? The absence of light wasn’t enough of an indication for you? We closed an hour ago.”

An hour ago? But her appointment…

“Sorry, I’m just…an hour ago? But the man on the phone said I could come in for a lesson then.”

“Oh, I see. So you show up an hour _later_ just to make sure you’re on time?”

A lifetime of living with Arya had made her impervious to sarcasm aimed at her, but something about the way he spoke to her set fire to the rage she had spent an entire day repressing, “Look, _sir_ , I came here to apologize for being so late, but now I don’t think I should have to! After all, it’s not my fault that my heel broke, or that my boss made me stay late, and it is certainly not my fault that Olenna Tyrell is an overbearing bitch who should have had the good grace to die years ago. So back off!”

Her chest heaved with sudden exertion, and blood rushed furiously through her veins. She felt ready to set the rude man and his whole building on fire, and to say to the hells with the dancing.

The man looked off balance, like he hadn’t been prepared for such a ferocious response, then his eyes narrowed. “What is your name, late girl?”

She stuck her chin out mulishly, “Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Something that was almost a smile flitted across his lips as he suddenly opened the door wide, gesturing for her to walk in. As it closed behind her, she heard him breathe out, “Call me ‘Petyr’.”


	3. Salute, En Garde, Advance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks around nervously, drops chapter, runs*
> 
> But really, I had every intention of finishing this thing back in June. Then, I got bitch-slapped by real life, and it all went downhill from there. This is still a work in progress, it has not been, nor will it be, abandoned. Thank you for reading, and be sure to berate me for my lengthy absence in the comment section!

_Inigo Montoya: You are using Bonetti’s Defense against me, ah?_  
 _Man in Black: I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain._  
 _Inigo: Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro?_  
 _Man in Black: Naturally, but I find that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro. Don’t you?_  
 _Inigo: Unless the enemy has studied his Agrippa…which I have!_   
                        -William Goldman, _The Princess Bride_

The inside of the studio was much as she had expected, except the reality came with more mirrors. A lot more. Seeing herself move across their reflective surface made her self-conscious and all too aware that she did not look her best after ten plus hours of work. And, she was extremely conscious of his eyes on her, watching her every step, the sway of her hips and hair.

Sansa had to stop herself from fidgeting with her clothes, unwilling to let him know that his gaze unnerved her, but also unable to stop her eyes drifting from their forward course.

They met his in one of the mirrors, and his small smirk let her know that he somehow knew her thoughts, knew the hitch in her breath and step was his doing.

_Godsdamn him. How can a man I’ve just met put me so close to the edge?_ She gritted her teeth and turned to face him.

He continued to move forward until there was less than a foot of space between them. The thudding of her heart increased, while her breath, once even, became slightly erratic. But, every breath she took in brought new information with it: he wore a light cologne, which was overlaid by the stronger scent of…minty cigarettes?

This stranger, this man who so carelessly invaded her space, should not smell as good as he did; it was godsdamned distracting.

Sansa and Petyr continued to stare at each other in silence, he slightly up, and she down. She guessed that were she to take off her sensible pumps, they would be of a height with one another.

He, the dancing master and invader of personal space, broke the silence first. “Why are you interested in learning to dance?”

Words spilled out before her brain could check them (she would later blame the sudden stream of nonsensical thought on the long year she’d been having), “I don’t…I’m not…I mean…gods, because I have to?”

His eyes widened at the confused onslaught.

“Wait, that doesn’t sound right, sorry. Um, I’m getting married? Oh, that shouldn’t be a question. I am getting married. Soon. In the near future. I mean…soon.”

The widened eyes narrowed.

“Shit, this isn’t…”

He took up the slack during her pause, “Allow me to interpret, if I may, what I can from that tangled mess, and you just nod if I’m right.”

Relief made her shoulders sag, and she nodded her agreement.

“You’re getting married.”

Nod.

“And, going from your outburst out the door, you will soon have the unpleasant distinction of calling Olenna Tyrell family?”

Emphatic nod.

“Furthermore, I gather that, from your fervent declaration, she has intimated that your current state of ignorance regarding one of the finer social graces must be corrected before the happy day, and that my studio will be the one to relieve you of that ignorance.”

She nodded so hard that she feared her head might suddenly remove itself from her shoulders in protest.

“And which of those blossoming roses is to have the honor of your hand?”

Sansa bit her lip and looked away. He knew, and for some reason she couldn’t bear to see him force the same polite smile (one that barely hid the snickering) that she had received from other acquaintances. Her eyes flicked to his, then away again.

“Hmm, as I thought.”

A minuscule nod was her grudging reply.

“So, it’s a marriage of convenient names. Well, worse alliances have been formed in the history of this world, and will be formed again, no doubt.”

She turned her head back to him, searching his face for any hint of pity or condescension. Her relief mounted as she looked in his eyes and saw neither. “How did you—”

“Guess? Rather easily. Your reluctance to say, coupled with some vague rumors flying around the studio. He is still friends with several dancers here, and is, I hear, close with one of our patrons.”

Oh gods, he hadn’t told her that Renly was involved with the studio. She sent a brief prayer to the Maiden and Mother, asking that she would have the good fortune to avoid him in the following months. Sansa focused her eyes back on his, and she realized that he had been aware of every expression, every minute twitch and wrinkle and thought that flitted across her face. The feeling that she might be out of her depth with this extremely well-informed man crawled up her spine and lodged in her brain.

Again he picked up on her thought and voiced answers to her unasked questions, “No need to fret about the lover, Sansa Stark. I believe we’ll keep our lessons confined to the evening hours. He rarely has occasion to come here when the sun has set, as he enjoys other…nighttime pursuits.”

_Godsdamn him; godsdamn him! He likes watching me squirm, likes knowing that he’s scored a hit. Godsdamned sadist!_

Sansa set her teeth and said nothing, refusing to, at least verbally, acknowledge the accuracy of his statements. The slight upward curve of his lips let her know that her words would have been superfluous anyway.

Reining in her thoughts, she steered the conversation elsewhere, “I am sorry that I was late tonight, and I can’t promise that it won’t happen again. My boss doesn’t really get that I am off the clock well before he decides the work is done. So, I would completely understand you passing me off to another instructor. Maybe one whose time is more flexible and less valuable?”

_Take the bait_. _Take the godsdamned bait_.

He eyed her for a moment, then spoke, “Now, why would I do something like that, after I’ve spent all this time getting to know you, Miss Sansa Stark?”

_Damn you to the seven hells_ , _Petyr Baelish_ , _and may their fires scorch you for several eternities_.

“You will, of course, incur additional fees for your tardiness.”

“I can pay,” she ground out.

Another, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips, “Really? You don’t want dearest grandmother to foot the bill? I’m not cheap, you know.”

“I. Can. Pay,” Sansa enunciated for him, venom dripping from every word.

He nodded in amused agreement, “And tonight, we will determine how much your lateness will cost you.”

“Wait, wha—”

His right hand was her waist, drawing her forward, his left at her right arm, taking her purse and flinging it away.

“If my mobile is cracked—”

“I’ll reimburse you, but now, we dance.”

“But, there’s no music.”

“You’re not ready for music, sweetling.”

The endearment caught her off guard, and she looked at him sharply. A predatory grin stretched his lips, and Sansa felt her mouth go dry. “For now,” Petyr continued, “we’ll just use the sound of my voice and see if your feet can keep up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note Part II: I hope you’ve enjoyed this first little bit, and thank you for reading! This note has less to do with the fic, though, and more to do with a personal fic crisis. I don’t know how GhostRelic feels about this, but does anyone have her Pride and Pack series, and can they message me on ff.net (I'm A for Anarchy there and I can message you my email) and email them to me? I’m a little desperate at this point…


End file.
